Cosmonauts have nine lives, too. That is why we launch ourselves
farther and faster, canvassing a galaxy full of stars to explore,
constellations to name: Bear in Winter, Woman Always Leaving,

or my favorite discovery, Fish Afraid of Drowning, a tribute to my life
when I was a deep-sea diver. Forgive me, then, for plucking your heart
bare as a tree in winter, for the fisticuffs under the night's shocked eye

of a moon. Searching itself becomes a career by life number eight,
and although you looked tempting leaving the city by canoe,
your fists full of fish, my attention was already shifting along its orbit.

But in my next life, having seen my every desire come around again
as a starfish regenerates legs, having traveled too fast and suffered
the big-sky blues, I'll make it my sole remaining quest

to find you in your new skin, under your new name. This time
I'll be the one waiting in the green galaxy of the open field, eyes on you,
not the moon. My last life will be defined by the singular thrill

of catching a glimpse of your wrists below your cuffs, by the shock
of your everyday presence. Already I feel smaller, happier.
The city lights reflect in the water, the river full of stars.